Not Dead Yet
by allthingsdecent
Summary: The "people" asked for it and I always give in to the "people." So here's the first chapter to my post-Everybody Dies fic.
1. Chapter 1

About three hours after they took off on their impromptu road trip, Wilson said he felt a little dizzy and needed to stop. House mockingly called him the "Queasy Rider" but agreed to pull over. They tucked into a little roadside diner, where House insisted on wearing a pair of sunglasses and a trucker hat, pulled low over his eyes.

"That disguise makes you look _more_ conspicuous, not less," Wilson said.

"I disagree," House said. "And besides, I think I'm pretty fly for a dead guy."

They ordered cheeseburgers and fries and contemplated each other.

"You do realize that you can't pay with a credit card. Ever again," Wilson said.

"I took 2 grand out of my bank account. Any more might scream, 'Guy who's faking his own death,'" said House. "So we'll see how long that lasts. After that, I expect you to support me in the manner to which I've grown accustomed."

Wilson shook his head, smiled in exasperation at him. He was still overcome by a heady combination of feelings: Anger at House for faking his death, utter gratitude that his friend would go to such lengths for him, and of course, a Wilsonian awareness that House's plan wasn't really much of a plan at all.

For now, though, he was just glad House was alive.

"I really thought you were dead, you bastard," he said.

"Sucked huh? Just a tiny taste of what I will be dealing with permanently in a few months," House said.

There was an awkward silence—that last comment hit a little _too_ close to home.

"So you got to attend your own funeral," said Wilson, musingly. "The ultimate narcissist's fantasy."

House smiled, proud of himself.

"How'd you do it anyway?" Wilson asked.

"I watched the event with binoculars from a window across the street and I …bugged the cell phone that I put in your pocket."

"A bug? How did you even come to possess such a device?"

"It's _possible_ that I may have swiped it from a certain private eye that you and I both know and loathe."

"Hmmm, pretty crafty, House," Wilson said.

"Thank you."

"Were you happy with the funeral turnout? I thought it was a strong showing for a misanthrope. Tears were even shed. And not just by people you owed money to."

"It wasn't bad," House said, in an unconvincing kind of way.

"But . . .?"

"Well, there was one rather conspicuous absence."

"Cuddy," Wilson said.

"I kinda thought she'd show. If only to confirm that I'm really dead."

"I did too," Wilson admitted.

"Is it possible that she hadn't heard the news? Not everyone knows she's in Chicago."

"She's heard," Wilson said.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I'm the one who told her."

"You're in touch with Cuddy?" House said. A tiny edge had crept into his voice.

"Of course," Wilson said. "And how do _you _know she's in Chicago, by the way?"

"Nevermind that. Why didn't you tell me you were in touch with her?"

"Because my relationship with Cuddy has nothing to do with you."

"Good one," House snorted.

Of course he was right. In some ways, Wilson and Cuddy's friendship was built entirely around their mutual affection for—and frustration with—House.

"How did she react to the news?"

"She was. . .very upset," Wilson said.

In fact, she had listened to him quietly and said nothing.

"I gotta go," she said quickly, her voice shaking.

"Will you at least try to come to the funeral?" he had asked.

"I don't know."

And she hung up.

"I guess she really does hate me after all. . ." House said glumly, scratching his chin.

"Or maybe her flight got delayed," Wilson said.

"Yeah, because that's more likely than her not wanting to go to the funeral of the guy who ruined her life."

He sighed.

Just then, Wilson's phone buzzed with a text message.

He looked down.

"Holy shit!"

House looked at him.

"It's from Cuddy," Wilson said, reading: "'Flight was cancelled. Just landed at LaGuardia.'"

"Shut up," House said.

Wilson showed him the phone.

"Holy shit," House agreed.

"What should I write back?"

"Tell her that you couldn't take it so you took off after the funeral and that you want to see her. And tell her to come here."

"_What?" _Wilson said. "She's not going to come here. We're 2 and a half hours from LaGuardia."

"She'll come to sit with a dying friend—one she may _never see again_."

"Huh," Wilson said. "And where will you be during this blessed reunion?"

"Three booths over. With my back to you—and a receiver in my ear. . ."

"Why House?"

"Because then I'll be able to hear your _entire conversation_," House cracked.

"That's not what I meant."

"Because I want to see her. Because _you_ want to see her."

"I don't know if I can lie to her face," Wilson said. "She's going to be upset. She's going to want to talk about you."

"So don't lie. Just say, 'I can't talk about it.' Which happens to be true."

Wilson sighed, hesitated. Then typed into his phone:

"Had to get away. At the Red Baron diner on Route 1. Can you meet me here?"

He hit send.

Both House and Wilson stared at the phone for what seemed like a very long time.

House drummed his fingers loudly on the table.

Wilson shot him a look.

House stopped drumming his fingers and began jiggling his leg.

"House, you're driving me crazy."

The phone buzzed. Wilson looked at it.

House stopped jiggling.

"What's it say?" he said, anxiously.

"I'll be damned," Wilson said. "She's on her way."  
######

Ten cups of coffee, eight games of Words With Friends, and three hours later, Cuddy arrived at the diner.

When House saw her car pull up, he quickly limped to an empty booth, and slumped low, just in case she might recognize the back of his neck.

He watched her get out of her car, from the corner of his eye and felt his heart race just at the sight of her.

He hadn't seen her in two years.

Her hair was longer, wavier than he'd last seen it. And she was wearing a tight black dress—a mourner's dress. God, was it possible she was even more beautiful than he had remembered? He blinked.

She was frowning a bit and looked frazzled, like someone who had been traveling all day.

When she saw Wilson, she gave him a long hug.

House adjusted the ear piece, slumped a bit further, and listened.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," Wilson said back.

"You okay?"

"I've been . . .better," Wilson said.

"I can't even imagine what you're going through," she said.

"It's been rough."

"So how was the funeral?"

"Unpleasant. . . .They were burying my best friend."

"So you, what? Just needed some space?"

"Something like that," Wilson said.

"I understand," Cuddy said, nodding. "It all must be so horrible for you. You saw him die, right?"

"I. . .don't want to talk about it," Wilson said.

"Sorry."

He looked at her.

"How are you?"

"Furious that I missed it," she said. "I'm seriously thinking of suing that fucking airline."

From his booth, House smiled.

"And besides that," she continued. "Just kind of numb."

"I know what you mean," he said.

"This is going to sound insane, but I always thought House and I would reconcile, you know?"

Wilson almost did a spit take.

"_Reconcile_?" he said.

"I don't mean romantically," she said. "Not necessarily. I just mean be in each other's lives. In some way. I had this vision of the two of us in the old age home together, insulting the other patients."

"I didn't know you felt that way."

"Yeah," she said. Then she added, in a far away voice: "He used to call me, you know. . ."

House squirmed a bit in his booth. _Oh crap_.

"Call you?"

"Yeah. When he got drunk. He'd call me, in tears, and tell me how sorry he was. How much he still loved me."

Wilson began to smirk and then realized that smirking was an inappropriate reaction under the circumstances. Instead, he covered his mouth with his hands, as though overcome with emotion.

"Crying?" he sputtered.

_You asshole,_ House thought.

"Yeah. He could be a sloppy drunk, as I'm sure you're well aware," Cuddy said, with a chuckle.

Wilson suddenly had a vision of House the night of the award's gala, stumbling to Cuddy's house in the rain, confessing his undying love to her.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."

"I wasn't ready to forgive him yet. . .but now I wish I had," she said.

"I'm sure some part of him"—the part that's sitting 20 feet away and listening to our conversation, Wilson thought—"knows that."

"It just sucks," Cuddy said, swallowing hard. "Everything sucks. You being sick. House dying. The fact that he did something so stupid and unforgivable, he died without knowing that I still love him."

And she burst into tears.

Wilson was about to get up, console her, when a male figure materialized at their table.

"I knew it! I knew you still loved me!" House said.

Cuddy looked up, turned white as a ghost . . . and passed out.

#####

"It's okay, we're doctors," Wilson said, as House cupped his palm under Cuddy's head and Wilson waved his hands in front of her face.

"What the hell are you doing?" Wilson hissed to House.

"I don't know improvised," House said, with a shrug.

"This whole staging your own death thing is going to fall apart if you keep telling people about it," Wilson said.

"She's not anyone, she's Cuddy."

With that, Cuddy's eyes fluttered open.

She saw House and Wilson hovering over her, their faces large and looming.

"Am I dreaming?" she said groggily.

"No," Wilson said. "You just passed out. And he's . . .real."

Cuddy rubbed her eyes and House helped her sit up.

"Is she going to be okay?" the waitress said. "You need me to call 911?"

"No, she's fine," Wilson said. "Maybe a glass of water?"

They helped Cuddy back into the booth.

"You're alive?" she said, looking at House, her eyes still sticky-wet from the tears she had been crying a few minutes earlier.

"Either that, or I'm a remarkably high-functioning ghost," he said.

"You fucking asshole."

"That's my girl," he said, smiling.

"The waitress brought over Cuddy's water. She took a sip and looked at House expectantly.

"So what was this. . .some elaborate scheme to get me back to New Jersey?"

"No," House said. "Everyone really thinks I'm dead . . . well, everyone but Wilson. And Foreman…if he ever looks under his end table."

Wilson gave House a curious look. He didn't know about Foreman.

"But why?"

"Because I got railroaded on some trumped up charges and my parole was revoked," House said. "It was either fake my own death or be in jail while Wilson was— "

"Dying," Wilson helpfully finished for him.

"Those were your _only_ two options?" Cuddy said, skeptically.

The color was beginning to return to her face.

"Pretty much."

"And who's going to take care of Wilson when he gets sick?"

"I am, of course," House said.

"And . . .what happens when he . . ."

"Dies," Wilson said.

"Yeah," Cuddy said.

"Haven't thought ahead that far," House said.

"And what about his body? _His_ funeral?"

"Hadn't thought ahead that far," House said.

"And then what about you? You're a fugitive for life? No identity? No medical license?"

"I hadn't—"

"Thought ahead that far," she said. "I got it. Great plan there, House."

"I switched dental records with a real dead guy," he said, as if to demonstrate that some planning had, in fact, occurred.

Cuddy stood up.

"Wilson, I love you. I'll call you once a week. Good luck with everything."

And she grabbed her purse and started to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" said House. "First of all, you're not going anywhere. You might be concussed. We have to monitor you for 24 hours."

"I'm fine," she said.

"And second. . .that's it? You do realize that if you leave now, you may never see me again. Dead guys are notoriously hard to get in touch with."

"I'll take my chances," she said, angrily.

She headed toward the exit.

"Wilson, do something!" House said, in a panic.

Wilson followed her to her car.

"Please don't go," he said sheepishly.

"I can't believe him. I can't believe _you_. Do you realize what you put me through?"

"Yes, believe me. Yes," Wilson said. "I was as surprised as you are."

"This little stunt is so. . .House. Except it's extreme, even for him. It's like House on crack."

"His motives are pure," Wilson said. "He did it out of love for me."

"And perhaps one day I'll be able to appreciate the beauty of his gesture. For now, I'm tired and cranky and I just want to find a hotel and get some sleep."

"House is right. You took a pretty hard fall. You need to be monitored," Wilson said.

"Et tu, Wilson?"

He looked at her earnestly.

"Just stick with us for a few days, okay? How long were you planning on staying in Princeton?"

"A week," Cuddy admitted.

"So ride with us for a week. House's death may've been fake, but mine is real. I don't know when we're going to. . .get a chance like this again."

He looked at her sadly.

"I miss you," he said.

"I miss you, too," she said.

"So you'll come with us?"

"And this is really because you want to spend some time with me before you—"

"Die," he said.

"And not because you're secretly hoping that I'll take care of House when you're gone?"

"I assure you, my motives are strictly selfish," he said.

She inhaled. Looked through the diner window, where House was watching them with some concern.

"Okay," she said reluctantly. "I'll come."

#####


	2. Just Like Old Times

**Author's note: A short chapter. I hope people aren't upset with the highly comedic tone. I'm just so not in the mood for angst right now. But I promise some heavier stuff will come soon. (It's kind of inevitable, huh?)**

The waitress told House about a decent motel about 30 miles down the road and he paid the bill and quickly met Cuddy and Wilson in the parking lot.

"So you're in?" he said to Cuddy, expectantly.

"For a few days," she said. "For _Wilson_."

"Cool," House said, trying to act nonchalant.

Cuddy pulled her keys out of her purse and approached her rental car.

"So where to next?" she said, spinning the key ring on her finger. "And please tell me it's a hotel. Preferably one with steaming hot water and clean towels. I'm exhausted."

She opened the door to her car. House eyed her.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm getting into my car—what does it look like I'm doing?"

"What part of middle-aged rebel_ biker gang_ didn't you understand?"

"The part where I'm not riding on one of those contraptions," she said. "I have a car."

"I'm pretty sure the beat poets weren't drawn to the lure of the open road from the front seat of a—" he peered at her rental—"Hyundai Sonata."

"It was all they had at the rental place," she sniffed. "And besides, I'm not a poet. I'm a hospital administrator. And a mother."

"The preferred term is HAMILF," House said. "Hospital administrator and mother I'd like to—"

"C'mon Cuddy," Wilson said, cutting him off. "It'll be fun."

"What am I supposed to do with my car?" she said, wrinkling her nose. "Drive it off a ditch? Or into a living room?"

"Impressive!" House said, looking at his watch. "Eight minutes in and it's our first reference to my vehicular misconduct."

"I'm just getting warmed up," Cuddy said.

"Leave the car here," said Wilson, trying to regain the focus. "We'll pick it up on the way back."

"I can't leave it here for a week. It'll get towed!"

"Better still," said House.

She looked at him.

"It must be fun living in a world with no consequences," she said.

"It is," he said. "You should try it sometime."

She rolled her eyes a bit, but pulled her overnight bag out of the trunk, and dropped her keys back into her purse.

"Yes!" Wilson said.

House handed her the spare helmet and she walked over to Wilson's bike.

"Alright James" she said. "Be gentle with me."

"You're not riding with Wilson," House said. "He can barely _walk _without falling over."

Cuddy looked at Wilson, who gave a sheepish shrug.

"I _am_ still getting the hang of it," he admitted.

"Great," Cuddy said.

She squinted at him. "And what's with the House hair, anyway?" she asked, gesturing to Wilson's manly new stubble.

(She remembered the time House wore a nerdy, Wilson-like vest in an attempt to get her to tell a white lie. Wilson's scruffy look was equally out of character.)

"It's a work in progress," Wilson said. "It's possible that I will grow it to ZZ Top length proportions."

"Ohmygod, I approve," said House.

"Or, it is possible that you'll shave tonight," Cuddy said.

"That too," he admitted.

She smiled and put on the helmet. House tightened the straps firmly around her chin, then slapped the top of her head, grinning triumphantly.

She climbed onto the back of his bike—it was a little tricky because of her skirt—and gingerly placed her hands around his waist.

"You're going to have to hold on a lot tighter than that, Cuddy," he said.

"Just drive," she said.

"You never had trouble holding on tight when you rode me in the past," he said.

"That's it!" she said, climbing off the bike. "I'm taking the sedan."

He grabbed her arm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was inappropriate. I promise I'll behave."

"You better," she said.

"Scout's honor," he said.

"You were never a boy scout," Cuddy said.

"Ya got me."

"This is just like old times," Wilson said, merrily.

#######

At the hotel, Cuddy asked the clerk for two rooms.

He nodded, began typing into his computer.

"She means one room," House said.

The clerk stopped typing, looked up.

"No she doesn't," Cuddy said to the clerk. "Keep typing. She means two rooms."

Now the clerk kept his fingers poised on the keyboard, confused.

"You might be concussed, Cuddy," House said. "We'll need to monitor your sleep. It's far safer if we're all in one room."

"He does make a valid point, Cuddy," Wilson said.

"I can already see how this week is going," she said. "Fine. One room. Two double beds."

The clerk started typing, then stopped for a second, as thought expecting to be faked out again, and then finally typed up their reservation.

When they got up to the room, Cuddy threw her bag on the bed. House threw his duffel bag on the same bed.

"Hey, that's my bed," she said.

"_Our_ bed," he said.

"Dream on, loverboy," she said.

"Yeah, it's probably for the best if I sleep with Cuddy," Wilson said, now throwing _his _bag on the bed. "I promise to be a complete gentleman, of course."

"Contrary to popular opinion, this is not the Make a Wish Foundation," she said, taking Wilson's bag and tossing it back at him.

"It was worth a shot," he said.

Then she took House's bag and threw it at him roughly. He caught it right on the solar plexus and gasped a bit.

"Funny story," he said, once he had collected himself. "Everyone thinks Wilson and me are totally gay for each other, but in fact, we both like sleeping _with women_."

"Then you can tell each other sexy bedtime stories about women," she said.

"That'll be somewhat awkward because all my sexy bedtime stories involve you," House said.

"What? Not your Russian rent-a-whore?" she said.

"You know about that, huh?" House said, looking chagrined.

"I know more than you think," Cuddy said.

"Thanks pal," House said, flicking Wilson on the back of the head.

"Hey, I didn't. . ." but he stopped mid-sentence, because they all knew that, in fact, he had.

"I'm taking a shower," said Cuddy. "Another thing I enjoy doing _alone_."

House started to say something crude, but thought better of it.

He and Wilson watched her go into the bathroom.

"What a woman," Wilson said, somewhat wistfully.

"Yeah," House said.

They were both staring at the closed bathroom door, as if they peered at it long enough, they might see a naked Cuddy.

"You okay with all this?" Wilson said.

"What? Seeing Cuddy? We're fine."

"Oh yeah. I don't detect any tension at all."

"There's no tension. We're both here for the same reason."

"Using my cancer as an excuse to work out your personal problems?"

"Something like that," House said, smiling.

Fifteen minutes later she emerged from the bathroom. Both House and Wilson were hoping she'd be wearing just a towel, but instead she was in annoyingly sensible pajamas—long flannel bottoms and a navy blue tank top. (Well, the tank top _was _sort of sexy, but House knew that her actual arsenal of smoking hot nightwear far surpassed it.)

She climbed into bed.

"Goodnight boys," she said.

"Goodnight Cuddy," they said together.

"Don't hog the covers," House said to Wilson. "Or fart."

####

At about 3 in the morning, House tiptoed over to her bed.

"Hey," he whispered.

She opened one eye.

"Hey," she said, half conscious.

"What day is today?" he asked.

"Wha. . ?"

"I'm checking your concussion. What day is today?"

"Friday," she said.

"And where are we?"

"The middle of fucking nowhere," she said.

"And is Gregory House dead or alive?"

"Depends on who you ask," she said.

"You're officially unconcussed," he said, smiling. "Now go back to sleep."

He gently put his hand over her eyes, closed them.

"G'night, House," she said sleepily.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest until her breathing became very still and she had fallen back asleep.

"Goodnight Cuddy," he said.

#####


	3. The Time of His Life

When Cuddy woke up next morning, House was splayed out—alone—on the other bed, still in his jeans and black t-shirt, sound asleep.

Wilson was nowhere to be found.

Cuddy got dressed and wandered into the hotel restaurant, where there was a somewhat unappetizing breakfast buffet.

She found Wilson, sitting by himself, eating a bowl of bran flakes.

Cuddy got some coffee and grabbed an anemic looking grapefruit and joined him.

"Sleep okay?" she asked.

"No," he said. "House kicks."

"Don't I know it," she chuckled.

"So where _is_ Sleeping Beauty?" Wilson said, looking at his watch. "It's almost 10."

"Last I checked, he was dead to the world," Cuddy said. "No pun intended."

Wilson chuckled.

"I'm actually glad he's asleep," said Cuddy, "because I wanted to talk to you."

Wilson gave her a knowing look.

"I'm not doing any more chemo," he said.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because it's a choice between quality of life and quantity of life—and I'm choosing quality."

"Who says you can't have both?"

"Me."

"Based on what?"

"Based on, I tried. I threw the Hail Mary and it got intercepted."

"That's football right?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

He smiled at her.

"Right."

"Well, why not try a series of short. . .punts instead?"

"Passes," he corrected. "But I take your point. . .Because we both know that if the insanely risky nuclear blast of chemo didn't work, a series of short reasonable doses isn't going to get the job done."

"Actually, we don't know that," Cuddy said.

"Cuddy, my mind is made up."

"But this is so unlike you," she said, trying not to let the anger register in her voice. "You're a man of reason. Of science. You became an oncologist because you believe in the _treatment of cancer_. What you're doing goes against your entire life's work!"

"It's _because_ of my life's work that I'm able to make an informed decision. A decision that's right for me."

Cuddy took a sip of her coffee.

"I just can't believe House is letting you get away with this," she said. "He's choosing _this_, of all times, to let you have your way?"

Wilson gave a sad smile.

"Trust me, he tried to talk me out of it. He hired actors to play my surviving patients. It was a beautiful scene—very Dr. Wilson's Opus."

Cuddy stabbed at her grapefruit with a knife.

"Now, _that's_ the House I know and love," she said.

On cue, House slid into the booth next to her. "If you keep talking about how much you love me, I'm going to start getting ideas," he said. He had a heaping plate of food in front of him—eggs, waffles, home fries, and bacon.

"Morning sunshine," Wilson said.

"Morning," House said. He looked down at Wilson and Cuddy's meager breakfasts with some disdain. "Am I the only who understands the value of carbo loading here?" he said.

"The food is disgusting," Wilson and Cuddy said in unison.

House shrugged, shoved some bacon in his mouth.

"So what are you two talking about: Wilson's Just Say No to Chemo campaign?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Cuddy said.

"I urge you to talk him out of it," said House. "But I'm through. I promised the man a chemo-free road trip and a chemo-free road trip is what he will get."

"My man," Wilson said, and they slapped hands.

Cuddy made a face in disgust.

"Speaking of your imminent death, Wilson," House continued. "Any thought on today's Kick the Bucket List?"

Wilson leaned back in his chair.

"I know exactly what I want to do," he said.

######

House looked up at the helicopter hovering overhead.

"I really expected something a little more creative from you, Jimmy boy," he said. "Sky diving is sort of Kick the Bucket List 101."

"There's something about knowing you're going to die in 5 months that makes knowing you might die in 10 minutes seem less terrifying," Wilson said.

"That doesn't actually apply to me and Cuddy," said House. "But we'll take one for Team Wilson."

Cuddy shook her head.

"Oh nooooo," she said. "I'm not going up there. Again I say: Moth-_er_" —she pronounced both syllables.

"So you're basically going to use that as an excuse to be a wet blanket this entire week?" House said.

"That's the plan," she said, breezily.

He shrugged, put his arm around Wilson.

"Then it's just you and me, pal. Let's see a man about a death defying jump from a helicopter. The womenfolk can cheer us from the ground."

They went up to a tent where the jumps were being sold.

"Two please," House said.

The kid behind the counter looked up.

"For you two?" he said.

"No, for Siegfried and Roy, they're right behind us. . .Yes, for us."

The kid squinted.

"He can go," he said, gesturing to Wilson. "But you can't."

"Because. . .?"

"Because no one who's handicapped can go up," the kid said.

Cuddy held her breath a bit. House's least favorite word.

"Why?" snarled House. "You afraid I might fall and, I dunno, _permanently damage my leg_?"

The kid shrugged.

"It's just the rule," he said.

"Well, I'll sign a waiver form," House said.

"There is no waiver form."

House folded his arms.

"What if I told you that I was already dead?" he said.

"Wha?" the kid said.

Both Cuddy and Wilson shot him looks.

"Uh," House said, shifting his weight on his feet. "What I meant to say was, what if I told you that my friend here is dying? You gonna make him jump out of an airplane _by himself_?"

"He won't be by himself," said the kid. "It's a tandem jump. He'll bey strapped onto one of our instructors."

"Oh," said House. "That's totally gay, by the way. . . So how much money would I have to—"

"House, I'm good," said Wilson, stepping in. "You can wait here on terra firma with Cuddy."

"You sure?" House said.

"Positive."

"Okay," House said, reluctantly, backing up.

The kid took Wilson's money, and then handed House a pair of binoculars.

"You can watch him through these," he said.

"Gee thanks," House said sarcastically. But he took the binoculars.

Then he kicked at a pebble on the ground, trying to mask his disappointment.

"I'm sorry House," Cuddy said, sincerely.

"I didn't really want to go," he said. "It's dumb."

"I totally agree," she said.

Together, they watched Wilson get strapped into his gear—the parachute, with goggles and a helmet. He was nodding intently, listening to the instructor, like the dutiful schoolboy that he must've once been.

They entered the helicopter and took off.

House peered through the binoculars, then handed them to Cuddy.

"Can you see?" he said.

"It's just a big blur," she said.

He crouched behind her, then reached across her shoulders, adjusted the binoculars for her vantage point.

"Try now," he said.

She tried again.

"I see him! I see him!" she said.

He smiled.

The 'copter door opened and Wilson and his instructor leaned over the edge, the wind visibly whipping their clothing and hair

"Why do I feel so nervous?" Cuddy asked House.

"Because you're a woman," he said.

But he folded his arms and pursed his lips a bit as Wilson and his partner jumped.

Wilson came flying down—grinning maniacally.

"He looks a bit like Dr. Edwards up there," House said, referring to an Emergency Room doc who was notorious for her facelifts.

He handed Cuddy the binoculars.

"Ha, he kind of does," she giggled.

They watched Wilson fall and fall and fall. . .

"He should've pulled the chute by now," House said.

They kept falling.

"C'mon Wilson, pull the chute," House said.

They were picking up speed.

"C'mon man, pull the damn chute!"

And with that, Wilson pulled his toggle and the parachute ascended.

"Christ," House said.

"Who's the woman now?" Cuddy teased.

"Shut up," House said.

They walked over to where Wilson had landed softly on the ground. He looked sweaty and winded and almost deliriously happy.

"So how was it?" Cuddy asked.

"Greatest thing I've ever done!" Wilson gushed.

House bit his lip, tried to contain a stupid grin.

"Your friend here has some serious balls," said the instructor. "I kept telling him to pull the chute but he wanted to wait til the last possible second. Maximum rush, man. It was pretty epic."

"Yeah," Wilson said, still out of breath. "Epic."

#####

House said he needed to make a quick stop at Mail Boxes Etc. before they headed back out on Route 1.

Wilson and Cuddy waited in the parking lot. He emerged several minutes later, carrying an envelope.

"What ya got there, House?" Wilson asked.

"The new me," he said.

He pulled out a fake driver's license and passport.

Cuddy grabbed it from him, looked at the name:

"John Buck," she said, musingly. "As in. . .John House? The man you supposedly hate?"

"As in John Doe," House said. "The man who doesn't exist. But, you know, cooler."

"So you just _forgot_ that John was your father's first name?"

"Step father," House said. "Well, _imposter _father. And it's actually a pretty common first name, in case you didn't know. Did your mother necessarily name you after the Mona _Lisa?"_

"If she had my name would be Mona, you moron," Cuddy said.

"You were quite the _moaner _when you were dating me," House said. Then he elbowed Wilson in the ribs. "Get it—Mona? _Moaner_?"

"You're a genius House," Wilson said.

"Hey, at least I don't have unresolved daddy issues," Cuddy said.

"Hey, at least I'm not sexually frustrated," House said.

"I'm not . . .!"

"Then why were moaning my name in your sleep last night, _Lisa_?" House said.

She glared at him.

"You are such a liar!"

"Am I going to have to separate you two?" Wilson said.

####

They drove for several hours on Route 1 and finally stopped at another generic motel for the night.

They sat down to a late dinner in the motel's wood-paneled restaurant. It had country music on the jukebox and greasy bar food like burgers and wings and beer. Cuddy had no choice but to order something called "The Dieter's Delight"—grilled chicken over some limp iceberg lettuce with mealy tomatoes.

"Livin' the dream," Cuddy said, biting on the lettuce.

House smiled at her.

Then he turned to Wilson.

"So what's next, buddy boy? What's on tomorrow's Kick the Bucket List? Race car driving? A lap dance by triplets—it's going to be hard to find 2 other women who look just like Cuddy on such short notice, but I'm sure we'll manage."

Cuddy rolled her eyes.

"Tight rope walking? Late night graffiti? A giant WILSON WAS HERE on an overpass? Talk to me."

"I think," said Wilson, munching on a fry, "I'm good."

House's eyes widened.

"What do you mean you're _good_?"

"I mean. . . I'm good. I'm just happy to be on the open road with my two best friends," he said.

"But. . . but. . . that's not the point of this road trip," House protested. "The point is for all your dreams to come true. For you to fulfill your every last desire."

Wilson shrugged.

"I am officially desire free," he said.

"C'mon Wilson. Don't wuss out on me here. What do you want to do? Swim with the sharks? Jet skiing? Mechanical bull riding? You must have some desire! Just tell me!"

Neither House nor Cuddy had noticed that Wilson's face was turning red.

He slammed his fist down on the table.

"Do you know what I want to do House?" he screamed. "I want to train to run a marathon, but I can't, because I have no time. I want to go to Mardi Gras for the first time, but I can't, because I'll be inconveniently _dead_ when it takes place! I want to fall in love again, but that's not happening either, is it? So why don't you just leave me the fuck alone and stop asking me what I desire? I desire to live! What I desire is life!"

And he got up and stormed away from the table.

House's mouth dropped open.

He watched Wilson run away, stunned.

"Fuck me," he said.

He put his head in his hands, visibly shaken.

"Fuck," he said, again.

Cuddy stared at him, not quite knowing what to do.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

"House that wasn't your fault," she said.

"I screwed up," he said.

"No, you didn't," she said.

She wanted to hug him, but wasn't sure if she should.

"He's supposed to be having the time of his life," House said. "This is supposed to make him feel better."

"He is," Cuddy said. "You saw how happy he was after the skydive."

"I shouldn't have been pressuring him. The last thing the guy needs is pressure," House said. "I pushed him too far. I've made him miserable."

"Of course, he's miserable House. He's dying. But you've make him less miserable."

"I'm making it worse," House said.

"House, you sacrificed everything for him," Cuddy said. "You've given him this incredible gift. A reckless, stupid gift, even by your standards, but a gift all the same. Trust me, he appreciates it."

"He's humoring me."

"House, let me ask you something: If you knew you had 5 months to live, how would you want to spend it?"

"Searching for the cure for whatever was killing me," he said.

"There is no cure."

"There's always the _possibility_ of a cure."

Cuddy sighed. Typical House.

"Okay, but this is just a hypothetical, so play along, will you?"

"Okay."

"How would you want to spend the last five months of your life?"

_Naked in bed with you, holding you in my arms_, House thought.

He scratched at the label of his beer, said nothing.

"You'd want to spend it surrounded by the people who loved you most, right?"

He shrugged.

"I guess. . .but that's a very exclusive club," he said. "Membership of one. Two if you count me."

"Three," Cuddy said.

They looked at each other. Then House swallowed, looked down at the table.

"You weren't really moaning my name in your sleep last night," he mumbled, by way of apology.

"I know," she said.

(Actually, she hadn't been totally sure. She was relieved.)

There was a long silence.

Finally, he stood up.

"I guess I'm going to go talk to him," he said, shakily.

"Good luck," she said.

And then, unexpectedly, he reached over and embraced her. It was the first sustained contact they'd had in over two years. He held her for a long time, as though reluctant to let go.

"I'm so glad you're here," he whispered in her ear.

#####


	4. You Never Know

That night, she had a sex dream about House.

He snuck into her hotel room and crawled into bed with her and methodically, wordlessly took off her clothing.

"We shouldn't," she whispered, feeling helpless and vulnerable and aroused.

"Shhh. Shhh," he kept saying, as he caressed and kissed every inch of her body. "It's okay . . . It's okay. . .I'm already dead."

She woke up hot and bothered with the sheets bunched between her legs.

She tried to make excuses: They were spending a lot of time in close quarters. Things had been very emotional—it was natural to have these feelings under times of extreme stress. The vibrations and straddling motion of the motorcycle would naturally make her. . .

Ugh.

She got up, got a glass of water, looked in the mirror.

"Lisa, you're such an idiot," she said out loud.

And somehow, she managed to fall back asleep.

Three hours later, she made her way downstairs, to the same rundown restaurant from the night before. If anything, it looked seedier in the daylight—as though it hadn't been redecorated (or properly cleaned) since 1974.

Wilson was already at a table, drinking coffee out of a chipped brown mug.

"Hi," she said. "Feeling better today?"

He smiled guiltily.

"Yeah," he said. "Sorry about my little diva moment last night."

"You're entitled to as many diva moments as you like," she said.

"Thanks."

"So you and House talked?"

"Yeah" Wilson said. "Actually, he told me what a self-pitying asshole I was being. . ."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Which was exactly what I needed to hear," he continued.

Men were so funny, Cuddy thought. They communicated their love in such unusual ways.

"Did he, uh, say anything about me?" she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.

Wilson cocked an eyebrow.

"No but he did give me a note to pass you in homeroom," he said.

"Very funny," she said. Then she looked around the room. "So where is Prince Charming anyway? Still sound asleep?"

"Actually, no. He was gone when I woke up. Not quite sure where he is."

"Huh," she said. "That's unusual. I wonder where he could've gone?"

"I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. I wouldn't get too worried."

"I wasn't worried, just curious."

He grinned at her, in a knowing sort of way.

"What?" she said, defensively.

"It just seems like you two are getting closer—_again_."

"I wouldn't necessarily say that," she said.

"Uh huh."

She closed her eyes.

"Oh fuck it—I had a sex dream about him last night," she blurted out, putting her head in her hands.

"Sex dream about who?" House said, slipping into the booth beside her.

Jesus, did the man hover and wait for the maximum shameful moment before he emerged?

"I was just telling Wilson about a movie I was watching on Pay-Per-View last night," she improvised.

"Cuddy, you don't need to watch those movies," he said. "I'm always just a phone call away."

"It wasn't. . . I wasn't . . ."

She felt her face flush.

"So where were you this morning anyway?" Wilson asked House.

Saved by Dr. Wilson.

"Taking care of some John Buck stuff," House said with a shrug. Then he turned back to Cuddy: "So was it the one with the pizza delivery guy we used to watch or the one in the girls' dorm room?"

#####

Since Wilson had nothing on his "Kick the Bucket List" they just decided to ride and see where the day took them.

They found a museum of Freaks and Oddities, where there were alien fetuses in boxes and taxidermied cyclops cats and photographs of bearded ladies and pinheads.

House and Wilson loved it, but Cuddy thought it was gross and fake.

Then they got a bottle of wine and some sandwiches and found a clearing along the side of the road for a picnic.

A woman walked by with a gorgeous Golden Retriever and Cuddy ran over to say hi and pet the dog. When she looked up, she saw House staring at her. He looked away.

House was being weird—weirder than usual, even. He kept sneaking off to make phone calls—"John Buck stuff," he called it—and she felt like he was hiding something. But then again, when _wasn't_ House hiding something?

They played darts at a bar and ended up spending a long time with the proprietor, who seemed lonely and bought them beers and gave them complimentary beer steins, which they took to be polite and, as soon as they were out of eyeshot, promptly threw away.

Cuddy and Wilson wanted to spend the night at the Jacksonville Inn, which looked nice, but House insisted that they drive a little further down the road, to a hotel called the Manor Resort.

They arrived at around 6:30. The plan was for Cuddy to meet the boys in their room at 8, at which point they would go out for dinner.

"Maybe not the hotel restaurant this time, huh?" Cuddy said. "Someplace nice."

"You got it, boss," Wilson said.

Cuddy went to her room, showered, changed into the only nice outfit she had—her mourner's dress. For the funeral, she had worn it with a tasteful scarf. Without the scarf, it had a plunging neckline and could actually be described as sexy. She put on a pair of pumps, some red lipstick, and headed down the hallway.

She knocked on their door.

Both her boys looked good—Wilson was wearing a blue shirt and grey trousers. House was wearing a tuxedo jacket (God knows where he'd gotten it), a white shirt, and jeans.

"Shall we?" Wilson said, holding out his arm, which Cuddy took.

"One sec," House said, nervously. "I, uh, forgot to floss."

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged a look.

He was gone for a long time, then came out of the bathroom, looking antsy.

"Has anyone seen my watch?" he said.

"House, you're wearing your watch," Wilson said.

"Oh," House said.

He bit his lip, rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"I gotta pee," he said.

"House, what's going on?" Cuddy said, folding her arms.

"Nothing," House said. "It's the body's natural process where the bladder is full and must void itself of all—."

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

Wilson opened it.

It was two men in tuxedoes, rolling food carts.

"Room service," they said.

"We didn't order any. . ."

"Right here!" House said, gesturing next to the bed.

There were several platters on the carts.

House opened them, with a flourish.

"Les voila!" he said. "Jambalaya! Crawfish! Gumbo! And we've got some andouille sausage, some dirty rice, and some blackened catfish."

Wilson's mouth dropped open.

"Where did all this stuff come from?"

"I hired a chef from the best Cajun restaurant in town," House said. Then he whistled loudly, through two fingers. And in through the door burst a Zydeco band—a guitar, an accordion, a drum, and a violin—and a bunch of busty young women in half shirts, wielding beads and noisemakers and party hats. Then another room service guy came, with a whole bar on wheels.

"If Wilson can't go Mardi Gras, Mardi Gras will come to Wilson!" House said.

Wilson started laughing.

"House, you're insane!" he said gleefully.

But he allowed the girls to drape dozens of beads over his head and he grabbed a bottle of rum and began to dance with them as the band broke into "Tipitina."

Cuddy walked up to House.

"How on earth did you pull this off?" she said, impressed.

"So-called John Buck stuff was actually Operation Hotel Mardi Gras," House said, rubbing his hands together as he stood over the bar cart. "I make a mean Hurricane. Want one?"

"Okay," she said. She watched him pour the rum and grenadine and ice into a glass—naturally, he made it strong.

"And what are we going to do when the other guests start complaining about the noise?" she asked.

"Invite them in of course!" House said, handing her the drink. "And I already bribed the concierge at the front desk. Anyone who even _thinks_ of complaining is going to get a major guilt trip about a dying man's wish."

"I gotta hand it to you," she said. "You've out done yourself."

"Thank you," he said, giving a little bow.

They looked over at Wilson. One of the party girls—Cuddy wasn't going to even ask where House procured them—was feeding him jambalaya as he danced.

"He looks happy, right?" House said.

#####

Several hours later, the hotel room was crammed with people.

House had grabbed an extra guitar and was jamming with the band, and Wilson, already quite drunk and a little sleepy, was dancing with Cuddy.

Wilson gave her a quick spin and dipped her. Then he staggered backwards.

"I gotta take a breather," he said, wiping some sweat from his brow. "House, put down that damn guitar and dance with your ex."

House looked up hopefully.

Cuddy smiled, in an inviting sort of way.

He quickly put down the guitar, took her hand.

The band, perhaps mindful of House's leg, switched to a ballad —"Tell it Like It is" by the Neville Brothers.

He pulled her close. He was a little sweaty and his body musk almost made her weak in the knees. He smelled like sex to her.

They didn't talk, just danced—sometimes she rested her head on his chest and sometimes she stared into his eyes.

They weren't kissing—and House's hands remained politely around her waist, never migrating below her skirtline, but everyone in the small room could sense the heat they generated.

"Get a room, you two," one of the Mardi Gras girls said, then giggled. "I mean, a different room."

Eventually, the booze was all drunk and the band packed up and Wilson, House, and Cuddy sat on the bed together, side by side, watching as the party cleared out.

"Wow," said Wilson. "That was. . .the best night of my life. I don't know what to say. Thank you."

"Don't get carried away, Wilson," House said. "It was just a party."

But he looked down at the floor and swallowed hard.

Cuddy rubbed House's shoulder, smiled at him.

"I should go," she said finally.

He looked at her. Puppy dog eyes. What did he want? An invitation back to her room? Of course she was tempted—but it just wasn't possible.

She gave Wilson a kiss goodnight, on the cheek. And then she gave House a kiss—and he found her mouth, just for the briefest second, just a whisper of tongue, and even that tiny kiss shot straight between her legs.

She had to get the hell out of there.

"Goodnight," she said.

Wilson showed her to the door. When he opened it, a very pretty red-headed woman, late 30s or so, was standing in the hallway.

"Crap," the woman said, peering in. "Did I miss the party?"

"Well yeah," Wilson said, wide-eyed. "But we can still crack open the mini bar."

"Cool," she said.

######

An hour later, Cuddy was ready for bed but first decided to get some ice from the icemaker down the hall.

When she passed Wilson and House's room, she saw House sitting in front of the door, his long legs spread out in front of him, his jacket and cane next to him on the floor, several strings of Mardi Gras beads still dangling from his neck.

"What are you doing out here?" she asked. "Did you lock yourself out?"

He looked up, startled. He had been half asleep.

"Wilson's in there with the redhead," he said.

"_Really_?" she said.

"Yup."

"Go Wilson."

House smiled.

"So what's your plan," Cuddy said. "To sit out here all night?"

"If that's what it takes," said House. "It'll be 4 am before he gets to first base."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "You can come crash in my room with me."

He looked surprised.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure."

"But you have a single room."

"We can share the bed."

"We _can_?"

"Just to sleep House. Just to sleep."

He grabbed his cane, stood up eagerly.

"What else?" he said.

#####

House didn't know what to make of it.

When Cuddy emerged from the bathroom, she wasn't wearing the sensible flannel pajama bottoms and tank from the other night, but a fairly skimpy nightgown. Not one of her sexiest, but nothing to sneeze at. It barely made it to her thighs and was just silky and clingy enough that he could fully make out the outline of her body.

Did she _want_ him to make a pass? Or was the plan just to slowly torture him?

He decided he wasn't going to make a move on her unless she asked. No, unless she _demanded_. (Okay, maybe just asked.)

As for Cuddy, she had convinced herself that she was merely wearing the short nightie to prove to him just how _little_ she was thinking of sex. No need to cover up. There was obviously nothing sexual between them.

(When it came to House, she had a PhD in denial.)

House had taken off his jeans and shirt and the beads and was just wearing a white tee and boxer shorts.

She climbed into bed beside him.

"Good night, House," she said.

"Good night, Cuddy," he said—as if he was going to get a wink of sleep.

But unlike him, Cuddy was an easy, comfortable sleeper. Within minutes, she was out.

House lay stiffly beside her, listening to her breathe, trying not to think about the thin layer of silky fabric that was all that stood between him and naked Cuddy.

She shifted a bit in her sleep, made a murmuring noise, and before he knew what had happened, she was sort of _scissoring_ him—one leg draped over his waist, her other leg almost tucked underneath him, her back slightly arched and her ass elevated—as if begging to be stroked and fondled.

"Shit," he said into the dark.

He hopefully checked to see if she was awake—maybe this was that invitation he craved. But no, she was sound asleep. It was an unfortunate accident—or an old habit of spooning him that apparently died hard.

His hand sort of hovered in the air, not quite sure where to land. It seemed so badly to want to gravitate to her ass, it was like he didn't know where else to put it.

Finally, he placed it, stiffly, on the bed.

He squirmed a bit—her leg was now pressing on his groin. His boner was getting out of hand.

Oh Christ.

Even in the darkness, he could see her breasts, luscious and smooth, where her nightie gapped. He wanted to fondle them, he wanted to suck on them—he wanted to lick her nipples hard.

Gah!

He couldn't spend the night like this.

"Cuddy," he whispered. He didn't intend to truly wake her up—just enough so that she'd change her position.

"Mmmm-hmmm," she said.

And she shifted her weight—but in the wrong direction—further _onto_ him.

Now, she was practically right on top of him—her head buried in his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs straddling him.

He was a man, not a saint. He couldn't help himself. He allowed himself the slightest feel of her ass, with both hands, lightly, over the fabric of her nightie.

My god her ass felt so gooooood.

With his eyes closed, and trying to keep his breathing even, he reached under the nightie, and slipped his fingers under the lace of her panties. His hand was touching the fleshiest part of her ass, and he wanted to go further, to keep exploring all that was now forbidden to him.

The funeral would not have been a hoax, he decided. He would die right here, in a hotel bed, from pent up sexual desire.

And then, in the dark—like some answer to a prayer he was too stubborn to even make—she grabbed his cock.

"Cuddy," he breathed.

_Please be awake, please be awake, please be awake. . ._

No answer.

"You awake?" he asked.

"I sure hope so," she said, stroking him.

He released a long, overdue groan.

"I thought I was dreaming," he said.

"This actually _was_ the dream I had last night," she said.

He had managed to pull off her panties now and his fingers slid between her legs. The touch of her hot wet folds, the feel of her own desire—it was almost too much for him.

"Cuddddddddy," he breathed. "I want you so bad."

"Then fuck me, John Buck," she whispered in his ear

"Thank God," he said.

And he kissed her—roughly, ravenously—as she guided him inside her.

#####

After that he was able to fall asleep, a little. When he woke up, he was relieved to discover that she was still in his arms.

He didn't want to let go and he didn't want her to wake up, either. He feared that she would regret what happened and pull away.

It had obviously been some heady combination of alcohol, sleep-induced inhibition, and their mutual giddiness over the success of the party that led to the sex—but was it really what she wanted?

She opened her eyes, looked at him.

"Hi," she said, sleepily.

He wanted a recording of her morning voice. He wanted to hear that sleepy, sex-sated voice every morning for the rest of his life.

"Hi," he said back.

"Mmmm you feel good," she said, snuggling a little closer.

He exhaled a little bit.

"So do you," he said.

He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Thank you _so much_ for last night," he said.

"No, thank you." She gave a little sexy smile.

"Can it . . .. happen again?" he asked, kissing her again.

"What? Now?.

"Not now. . .although I _could_. . ."

"Yeah, I can tell," she said, looking down at the tented sheet.

"But I mean, _ever _again."

"It'll be tricky, with you being dead and all."

"I'm serious, Cuddy."

She looked thoughtful for a second.

"What day is today?" she asked.

"Monday," he said.

"So I have four more days on this God forsaken road trip," she said. "That means we can have sex. . .at least twelve more times."  
#####

They went down to the hotel restaurant, which was much nicer than that crappy one in Georgia.

Wilson was nowhere to be found.

They sat, ordered coffee, told the waiter they were waiting for a friend—or maybe two.

Finally, Wilson showed up, still wearing the outfit from last night, unshaven again (at Cuddy's behest, he had jettisoned the House look on the second day of the trip), his hair sticking up in creative directions. He was alone.

"Mornin'," he said.

"Where's Rita Hayworth?" House asked.

"She had to go," Wilson said.

"But you had fun?" House said, raising an eyebrow.

"It was amazing," Wilson said dreamily. "We talked all night."

"The sad thing is, I actually believe you," House said.

Wilson leaned back in his chair, smirked at them.

"What about you? You two look awfully proud of yourselves this morning."

House and Cuddy exchanged a look.

"I crashed in her room. . ."

"He slept in my bed. . ."

"Yeah, we slept together. . ."

"He means, we. . ."

"I mean I . . ."

"Say no more," Wilson said, chuckling.

"So what was her name?" House said quickly, trying to change the subject.

"Laura," Wilson said. "She's incredible. . .she just quit her job as a high school English teacher and she's joining the Peace Corps in Uganda in six months—and I'm going to. . .join her."

House and Cuddy's mouths dropped open.

"I'm going to try the chemo again," Wilson said.

They stared at him, in shock.

"Last night, I was able to cross two items off my Kick the Bucket List: Mardi Gras and, maybe, possibly, fall in love."

House smiled in fond exasperation, shook his head.

"I'm not saying I'm in love with Laura. I'm just saying I _could_ fall in love with Laura. And all that happened in one night! _One night!_ Thanks to you two."

"Don't look at me," said Cuddy. "That was all House."

"The point is, I just realized that you two are so precious to me and that every day is so precious and I should fight for as many days as possible, because, well. . .you never know."

"No," Cuddy said, trying not to cry. "You don't."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," House said.

"So. . .where do we begin?" Wilson said.

"It just so happens that we have an excellent oncology department in my hospital in Chicago," Cuddy said.

"To Chicago it is then," House said. "If we start after breakfast, we can be there in three days."

"What about your rental car, back in Jersey?" Wilson said.

"Oh Wilson," said Cuddy. "Live a little."

THE END


End file.
